


The Swan Queen

by TheMusicalHermit



Category: Swan Princess (1994)
Genre: F/M, Retelling, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMusicalHermit/pseuds/TheMusicalHermit
Summary: A retelling of the Swan Princess animated film, with more focus on Odette's captivity than on Derek's search. Darker and with expanded backstories for all.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters in so far as they are drawn from the animated films. My take on any ballet-only characters to show up is my own - Tchaikovsky is dead long enough for open season on them.

Harold Agrippa's family had been the court wizards of Whitepool for generations, and he liked it that way. King William was a good ruler (by his estimation at least). Always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. Very forgiving, even more trusting.

It's probably why Agrippa had been able to even begin researching the Forbidden Arts.

It had started out with noble goals - understanding the various enemies that the good King seemed to draw like flies to a pot of honey. Understanding their abilities. Knowing how to counter them. Perhaps he should have heeded his father's warnings about the seductive nature of the dark arts.

Still, he had rationalised, there was no harm in simple research. As long as he didn't use the powers, or at least never to harm his lord and the realm, it was excusable. 

The first time that he had misused his research had been during a famine.

King William and Queen Matilda had been able to keep the peasantry from starving and the nobles from rising against them in revolt, but at rather hefty cost to their own stores. As a result, the King's direct staff had had nothing to eat but increasingly thin porridge and hardtack for some months. Perhaps a rat or hen, now and then. As a member of the advisory board, Agrippa himself had been invited to a few state dinners where a single, pitifully small boar and a few dishes of lentils and onion made the meal.

His adopted son and apprentice, a foundling by the name of Rothbart, was not so lucky. The child had been complaining of stomach pains for a fortnight when Agrippa finally gave in.

He'd spent the rest of the famine secretly turning the servant's gruel into meat pies and spiced carrots. Agrippa was fairly certain that King William was aware of what was going on, but the good king always turned a blind eye. More importantly, he kept Matilda, known to be more exact in legal matters and unfortunately religious, conveniently distracted. The servants, good yet slightly dim people, didn't question the how of it. Hunger has a way of altering people's focuses.

Agrippa began to experiment shortly after the famine let up. The servants slowly went back to their old ways, leaving him alone to his indecipherable ones, though the occasional pregnant wife would turn up now and demand specific dishes.

The priests would probably call it blasphemous if they knew Agrippa was turning water into wine in his study. Even more blasphemous was when he let his imagination go. He was certain that he'd tasted the nectar of the Gods on several occasions. His son didn't appreciate the wine at first. But soon enough he had come up with a few vintages that even Agrippa was amazed by.

Agrippa's research continued, and soon he was even nightly changing the roast ducks the cook sent to his study to delectable goose and swan meat. Rothbart found this endlessly fascinating, the fact they could turn one creature into another so easily.

One of the new scullery boys was the first person Agrippa had changed. The boy had forgotten to bring up a leek soup to accompany a couple of chicken pies one day. Rothbart had already changed his pie into a side of boar; Agrippa was in the midst of turning his pie into a succulent salted stag when the kitchen boy returned. 

Truly one of the great drawbacks to the Forbidden Arts, as Agrippa had remarked later that evening in his journals, was that they were terribly flashy and attention grabbing. Agrippa added a note to improve the sealing of his door - the servant had noticed the flashing lights before opening it.

The boy had been strangely disbelieving of the magic at first, even going so far as to dimly suggest they had poached the king's deer. His disbelief quickly turned to fear, and threats to bring the priest and the queen when he realised that neither Rothbart nor Agrippa had ever expressed interest in anything other than books. The boy really was much quieter as a swallow, though the bird song was shrill as the two magicians managed to force him into a cage.

The obvious issue of the spilled soup was the first thing to take care of. Agrippa cautioned his young apprentice as he set about replacing the spill with a woven mat that if it looked like there had been a struggle, it would be harder to avoid punishment.

A few months later, when the search for the missing kitchen boy had died down, Agrippa took the cage and its occupant along while aiding in a hunt for an evil sorcerer. It had been quite simple to release the spell with the scullery boy in range of the sorcerer's mind control powers. A sad end to a sad person, but it solved the problem.

Agrippa tried to put the Forbidden Arts aside then, returning to simply supping on whatever his friends in the kitchens saw fit to send up. Rothbart, then a strapping lad of ten, was upset with this change of direction, but vowed put aside the magic as well.

Sadly, Agrippa's best intentions failed when his late sister's daughter Bridget came running from the Queen's chamber one day. Apparently she had been polishing one of the queen's rings and fumbled it. Into the fire. Agrippa had always thought her to be a clumsy girl - too much of her father in her. Still, she was family, and the queen would surely have her tried as a thief for the mishap. Rothbart's threats of swearing vengeance if his cousin were put to death merely increased Agrippa's own misgivings.

So, to save her from being tried and hanged for theft, he used the Forbidden Arts to create a replacement ring. Bridget was thankful, but echoed warnings about the Arts he had heard several times before.

Regrettably, one thing quickly lead to another as he fell back under the seductive power of the restricted magics. First it was as simple as stepping aside and creating a coin for a beggar. Then it was equalising the payment for a new book when he came up short, followed by conjuring a bag of money to buy Rothbart an old nag to enable him to assist with magical issues further afield. And so on. 

Money was easy to create. Living things were more difficult.

Technically it wasn't necromancy - he wasn't an evil magician after all. But he had wanted to see his sister again and talk to her about his unease with Rothbart's incessant demands to learn more of the Forbidden Arts. He had been struck by the idea when Bridget fell ill with a terrible sickness that stuck her of her ability to hear - in his worry over her sickbed, Agrippa had been reminded of her mother.

Helga looked the way he preferred remembering her. Her sharp chin jutting proudly, her dingy white-blond hair tightly bound beneath a chiffon, her grey eyes staring defiantly, her belly not yet protruding with the child that would cause her death. Her husband had perished early on during the famine, he recalled dimly. Too generous, giving his gruel to others too readily. Bridget had been inconsolable. Much like her father had been when his wife wouldn't stop bleeding despite everything Agrippa had done to staunch the flow. 

Her rough voice gave him no comfort though, as all she did was repeat old warnings their father and grandfather had given them about the Forbidden Arts. Warnings that kept him up at night. When he pressed for advice about what he should do about Rothbart, she echoed his own misgivings. Rothbart was too interested for his own good. Too proud, too quick-tempered. Too bright.

Slowly, Agrippa realised that his sister was merely voicing his own opinions, answering questions too readily. Never questioning about exactly who Rothbart, a foundling who had arrived some sixteen years after her death, was to him. Never asking situational questions, as he remembered her having done whenever he sought her advice. Not even asking if he had taught Rothbart any more of the Forbidden Arts than how to change things (he hadn't). Even her mannerisms were hollow. This facade was not his sister, but a mere amalgamation of his memories of her.

Unmaking said amalgamation was a different magic altogether, he unhappily discovered. It didn't take long for her presence to become a hassle to hide. Especially as the spectre did not require sleep. He was fortunate in that she listened to his orders unquestioningly, sitting throughout the night in a chair. He found her stare unnerving and covered the thing with a spare sheet, and left her there.

Yet the construct breathed, and occasionally sang a familiar lullaby. He searched endlessly for a way of ridding himself of it. It bled, and if left too long in a false form would inevitably turn back into his sister's image. Thus his newly formed means of disposal were unavailable.

Even worse, Rothbart discovered her one day while fetching reagents. The boy's stream of questions abruptly cut off when Agrippa struck him in frustration. The eleven year old's eyes betrayed immense shock as tears welled in his dark blue eyes. At the sight, Agrippa felt his own heart rend, and made amends as best he could by explaining the bare minimum of what the spectre was and what he had done. 

He hoped that the knowledge would lessen the sting, while also not being enough for the child to develop any more bad habits. Still, he could sense that the boy's trust in him was forever altered.

Finally, after Bridget had almost discovered her mother's remnant, Agrippa turned to his incomplete research on destruction. The magic seemed to pulse with an energy of its own as he used it, but fizzled upon contact with his mistake. Desperate, he sent out riders searching for anything related to destruction magic. When the King and Queen asked about these expenditures, Agrippa made a lie about having heard tell of a power-hungry witch in the provinces.

The riders outdid themselves, and managed to prove his lie to be an unknown truth when they returned with news of a witch who had, almost a decade earlier, destroyed a lesser baron with magic after some altercation between the two. Evidently the woman had insinuated herself into his household as a maid and drawn the man's attention, much to the chagrin of his wife. According to said wife, the witch had grown bored, murdered him, and subsequently fled into some nearby ruins that overlooked a cliff side lake.

Agrippa felt there was more to the story, but found he couldn't bring himself to care. The answer to his own problem was close. As the ruins sat on opposite side of the border with Chamberg, King William sent a missive across the bay to request permission to exact justice on the witch. King Siegfried's affirmative answer came a fortnight later. 

Agrippa rode out with a squadron of soldiers the next day. Three of them returned a week later. In his knapsack lay the young witch's disembodied head, cushioned by her flame red hair. The thing would be put on display at the postern as a warning to practitioners of the Forbidden Arts.

Beneath the skull lay her grimoire.

King William ordered the thing burned, wishing to bar corrupt magic from his realm, and Agrippa loyally threw it into the fire. Later that evening in his chambers, he drew from his sleeves several torn pages in the witch's scrawl and set about deciphering them.

Rothbart had been confused when he arrived the next morning and the now familiar presence of Helga's phantom was gone. Agrippa told the youth that he had found a way to banish the creation. It was true enough. And so life returned to normal.

Agrippa's trial came four years later. When he was sentenced to death, Bridget came to his cell in tears, trying to communicate in the gestured language she and Rothbart had developed. Rothbart did not visit.

He eventually realised what had happened. Rothbart, now a lanky fifteen year old, had passed his final test and was promoted to associate court wizard. The title had been created by King William at Agrippa's request to gradually accord his son more responsibility as Agrippa would slowly step down from his own post. 

He had always had the sneaking suspicion that the foundling was still practicing the few Forbidden Arts Agrippa had taught him. The boy always was well fed, regardless of how harsh the winter was, and always had enough money to pay for his own things. Far more money than he should have had on the allowance Agrippa gave.

Unfortunately Agrippa had never found any solid evidence of the boy's fiddling with dark magic. And his young apprentice had known plenty about where to find evidence of Agrippa's.

Rothbart finally approached him the night before his execution to quietly tell him that he had been made court wizard. Despite himself, Agrippa felt an odd surge of pride in the boy's achievement. He had raised him from the mewling infant found on the palace steps, and had always wished the redhead to succeed him in his post. However he had, quite honestly, never wanted it to happen this way.

As a parting gift, Rothbart presented his own grimoire to Agrippa. It was a simple book, leather, with waterfowl stencilled on it. Most of Agrippa's spells were already copied. Healing spells, finding spells, other accepted magics. A further sting of betrayal came when Rothbart opened a secret compartment in the spine and revealed a small scroll with the basics of three forbidden spells.

Agrippa watched the boy close back up the grimoire, and broke Rothbart's silence with a flat "Why did you do this."

The boy looked up, his dark blue eyes nearly bursting with emotions. "I didn't mean for it to go this far! I don't understand why they can't see all the good we could do with the Arts! All that power, and we can't use it for anything useful because the Church and our beloved Queen Matilda frown on it. 

"We could alleviate any famine, eliminate poverty, easily keep the realm defended! Yet you, with your oh so infinite wisdom, saw fit to focus on treating the symptoms of a far greater evil." Rothbart's voice was hushed as he tripped over words that flowed as water from a burst skein. "I swear that as court wizard I'll teach people the benefits of these so called 'Forbidden Arts,' something you never had the courage to attempt."

Agrippa sighed. "The Forbidden Arts are too seductive. I found it safer to merely give my council to the King to bring about the change you seek."

"And we saw what that led to, didn't we," snapped Rothbart. "That famine (which our land is still recovering from) wouldn't have killed so many people if you had offered your aid openly. The bookbinder, Clavius, who bound my grimoire? He watched his entire family waste away, unable to do anything. Somehow that's acceptable because they lived in the village, and not the castle."

Agrippa glared. "Did I say it was acceptable? It isn't! But one man cannot change the course of nature or the minds of the court through use of these magics. You will only lead to your own destruction."

"Maybe so, but at least I will have tried my best."

The teenaged magician stormed towards the door, and paused to look back at his adoptive father. Their eyes met through the iron bars of the cell. "I am sorry."

Agrippa bowed his head, unable to look at his prodigy. "I am too."

Rothbart opened his mouth, then closed it again. Turning, he shut the heavy prison door behind him and left Agrippa to reflect on his fate.

\----------------

The day of the execution of Rothbart's former master arrived, and then passed. King William, in his infinite mercy, had decided to merely banish the aged wizard. Queen Matilda looked as if she'd eaten a lemon for the rest of the day. Rothbart wouldn't have been surprised if she'd secretly sent out assassins to "rid the world of that vile man," as she'd put it.

Quietly, the teenager was overjoyed that he wouldn't have to watch the execution of his adoptive father. Especially as his demise was directly due to his personal actions. He had spitefully tipped off the spymaster, Lord Lawrence, after Agrippa had hit him, thinking the crime would be light due to Agrippa's long and loyal service. As the investigation dragged on, he realised he had been wrong and suddenly all the pains Agrippa had taken to hide their use of the Forbidden Arts made sense.

Queen Matilda in particular had been ecstatic to turn on the ex-court mage. Rothbart quickly came to realise she was suspicious of all magic users - she wouldn't even let Rothbart near enough to cast a blessing on her when she fell pregnant. Angered, he cursed her once ensconced in his chambers. Bridget's explanation that evening of the queen's miscarriage allowed him some vindication.

He celebrated his good mood by revealing the transformation magic to Bridget in the form of a roasted deer and his own vintage of brandy. She was oddly reluctant at first, but the food was delectable and the drink was one that Agrippa had praised. After the dinner, his cousin demanded that he teach her how to transform food as well. Impressing his one remaining relative was a success, at least.

Rothbart's first day on the council was met with less optimal results.

The Queen and the royal priest had been resolute in their stance against what they deemed a flagrant misuse of power. Somehow using any magic on a large scale was distasteful in their eyes. It was a good thing, then, that he hadn't opened with his speech about how the Forbidden Arts were truly the most useful of the magical arts. The treasurer made enough snide remarks about how Agrippa's "magic coin trick" would destabilise the economy to support the idea that he was fighting an uphill battle.

King William, however, was patient with the young master of the arcane. They did not spend altogether that much time alone, but whenever they were alone Rothbart attempted to subtly argue for the benefits of what he offered. It did not take long for him to reach the conclusion that either the good king was pointedly yet politely ignoring these hints, or he was just that thick. If he were a betting man, Rothbart's money would be on the latter.

It was around the second month that he started planning the coup, convinced that despite King William's good intentions his allegiances to the status quo ran too deep for any real change to come about. The council would be dissolved and the King sent to some monastery, with Rothbart acting as regent until the king's quiet death would leave him in sole charge of the realm.

On the other hand was Matilda. She proved a particularly difficult pill to swallow. At every turn the queen questioned how much of Agrippa's evil magics had wormed their way into Rothbart's head. Naturally, this caused the entire council to be suspicious of him (when they weren't dismissing him due to his youth). To combat remarks about his age, he made a point of growing as bushy a beard as he could. It never seemed to get past the scruffy stage, but Rothbart liked to imagine it made him look more mature.

As the day to day of attempting to win friends and influence people played out, Rothbart continued to build up a concoctions of curses against the queen and a varying succession of priests. The queen, being young still, merely became highly susceptible to colds. The elderly men were far weaker against the health curses it seemed. Regrettably Lawrence grew too questioning for comfort after the fourth heart attack. 

Rothbart quickly switched to luck curses. An old man tripping over his own robe down some stairs was apparently much less suspicious than a fifth heart attack.

By the end of the year the queen's health was failing even as her belly swelled with another child. Rothbart had to raise his cup to her dutiful doggedness with her attempts of providing the ageing king with an heir. 

The young warlock was called in to bless her, to the chagrin of the newest priest. King William's worried face and the stricken look on Bridget's were enough to convince him to fully go through with the ritual, removing his own curses in the process. His heart felt lighter afterwards, for reasons he didn't wish to examine closely.

Unknown to Rothbart, Lawrence had been sending out spies to look into the deaths of the priests. In their searching, they had found old Agrippa's trail. The man himself had been living in the same ruins where he'd found the witch some years before, on the western border with Chamberg. Lawrence argued that by leaving the ruins to talk with them Agrippa had defied the king's banishment (a nebulous claim) and arrested the old wizard.

It didn't take long for Agrippa to point out that the books in his library were all on healing magic, as he'd been sustaining himself by aiding travellers lost in the nearby woods in exchange for food. Lawrence demanded that Agrippa use his scrying glass to determine who was the cause of the deaths, whereupon Rothbart's preparation for the coup was unveiled.

Lawrence camped out at the ruins for another week with Agrippa as his prisoner, waiting for a reply to his letter on what to do with the interloper. He added that the ex-court wizard was aiding with an investigation, prudently omitting further details. While days passed with no reply, the loyal spymaster gathered substantial evidence of Rothbart's misdeeds. 

Six days later the council's reply finally arrived. The council's opinion, as overseen by Queen Matilda (and notably missing Rothbart), was that while the King still wished to reward Agrippa for his aide by allowing him passage out of the kingdom, he had broken the rules of his banishment by Lawrence's own report. The laws were clear.

Lawrence set back out for the capitol with man's skull as evidence of the deed.

The evening of his return, Lawrence called for a secret emergency council meeting. Shortly after the meeting began, Matilda fainted. Worried over her state, William called for the doctors. It was soon determined that she had gone into labour. The meeting was postponed.

Matilda's labour was long and hard. The medical staff determined that the child's position in the womb was unusual, and then that queen's heart was failing. Later accusations that Rothbart had cursed the queen were never proven, despite their validity. The nurses were forced to perform surgery on the dying queen, cutting her belly open in an attempt to save the life of the heir. The girl child was pulled squalling from the her mother's cooling body.

King William's response was muted, but he smiled gently down at his daughter when she was placed in his arms. Naming her after her maternal grandmother, William presented Princess Odette to the court later a few days later.

Rothbart watched this all happen, rather unquieted. Though she was a thorn in his side, the way the queen died was pitiable even in his eyes. Bridget's memory of her own mother did not particularly help his guilt on that note. Even more, she'd died in labour yet the new heir completely healthy. Utterly useless. He would have preferred they both die - his planned coup worked better without a viable heir.

Scowling at the joy on the faces of Chamberg's queen regent and William's faces as the Chamberg princeling presented a necklace to the babe, Rothbart withdrew to his chambers.

Lawrence's attack came later that evening, when he was preparing a spell to deal with this newest obstacle. His trial was over quickly due to the amount of evidence the spymaster had been able to gather since his return from the ruins. The entire council, in a rare show of unity, condemned him to the king's judgement. Lawrence in particular cautioned for the teenager's execution.

William, ever tender of heart, once more ruled that exile was the best course of action. The boy was yet young - perhaps he would turn his focus to healing spells as Agrippa had. To appease the council, he ordered the wizard's library burned. Perhaps it would prevent the next court wizard from turning down a similar path as the previous two. Bridget, having been accused of complicity with her cousin's coup, was forced to enter a nunnery in disgrace.

Angered by the near complete destruction of his family and their legacy, Rothbart swore vengeance.

As he trudged away from the keep, he drew out a tiny scroll from his glove - he had just managed to hide it there as the guards ransacked his chambers. The foundation of his revenge was in hand. And nothing would stop him from achieving it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This here is my first attempt at writing FanFiction again after some years. This story was born from the idea for one scene; building up to it will take some time because a lot is different due to coming to terms with why that scene was happening myself.
> 
> Title subject to change. Many things subject to change.
> 
> I will be drawing upon both the ballet and various Swan Princess franchise films (except the CGI monstrosities because I can't bring myself to watch them and their plasticine faces).
> 
> Please leave a review and/or kudos -TMH


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own any of the characters in so far as they are drawn from the animated films. My take on any ballet-only characters to show up is my own - Tchaikovsky is dead long enough for open season on them.

"Stay inside, Odette." Those were her father's last words to her - stay inside the carriage.

Odette had no idea how she was supposed to have followed that instruction, given that the entire wall was soon ripped away as some demonic flying creature snatched her from the wreckage with bloodied claws. She screamed as they launched into the air, dizzied by the skyward vault. Below her, she could see the ruined corpses of her party. Her father was holding in his guts with one hand, stumbling weakly after them and finally collapsing with a pained shout.

She struggled feebly, shoulders stretched painfully taut as the beast carried her away. Desperate, she turned her head and sunk her teeth into a fleshy talon. The beast roared in pain and glared at her, hissing as it adjusted its grip.

Seizing the opportunity, Odette wrenched her arm free. Gritting her teeth at the strain put on her shoulder, she pounded on the other set of claws. The animal gave out a series of whistling clicks as it hovered and attempted to recapture her liberated limb. 

Raking her fingernails across the rough skin, she clawed her way up to relieve her wrenched joint and again bit deeply into the creature's flesh. The thing screeched once more, claws tightening. It glared at her again, snorted angrily, and released her with another whistling click.

Odette gave a shout of surprise as she fell, arms waving wildly for purchase and meeting naught but air. Her caplet came undone and blew away, a blot of red quickly consumed by the darkness. Below her the roiling mass of trees drew ever closer, and above her the beast watched her fall, illuminated only by the roiling flashes of light in the clouds.

The princess screamed once more when the beast suddenly dove. It came down beside her and seized her legs, claws slicing easily into her legs. It twisted in midair, catching her against its body before levelling out once more. Her head bounced painfully, her vision marred by the wet cling of hair upon her face.

Her sight was abruptly obscured further by her skirts. Odette shrieked, and pressed her hands up in an attempt to preserve her modesty. The rain slid uncomfortably down her hose, quickly soaking the fabric, pooled uncomfortably at her belt and seeped into her chemise. The beast looked down briefly and gave a series of rough barks accompanied by a dismissive snort.

As they cleared the storm, the creature clicked and whirred almost conversationally. 

"Oh do shut up," Odette snapped at it, at last managing to shove enough of her skirts between her legs to suit her sense of propriety. Her vitriol was rewarded by another, quieter series of barks and won her no silence.

Blood pounded heavily in her ears after a few minutes, drowning out the animal's unceasing noise. Her legs felt numb, feet dangling uselessly behind her. Perhaps not so useless, she slowly realised. She tried to right herself, straining her abdominal muscles and reaching for her ankles. Her left hand caught and with it she levered herself up. 

She paused for a moment, vision spotting and stomach roiling with nausea, as the blood rushed from her head. Shifting her grasp to the creature's ankle, she swung her fist blindly into a nearby patch of fur. The creature coughed loudly, reflexively drawing its legs closer to its body.

It began to hover once more, hissing at her menacingly. She swung her arm back to hit it again, and its mouth closed around her wrist with a growl. She screamed in pain. Simultaneously the sharp teeth and talons bit deeper into her flesh as the creature stretched her out in the air, red eyes staring menacingly. Her spine popped and she felt faint. Clawing at it's chin in a panic, she didn't notice it shift one claw up until her injured arm was caught and the creature lowered her beneath it again.

The thing doubled over on itself to growl lowly in her face. She stared, frozen, at her terrified reflection in its eyes. It hissed and straightened out once more, wings beating quickly as the ground soared by beneath them.

\------------

Capturing the princess proved more difficult than he had anticipated. Rothbart was sure he'd run the full gamut of emotion in the relatively brief time it took to fly from where he'd effortlessly slaughtered her guards to the ruins he had made home several years ago.

From pride to annoyance, amusement to bewilderment, anger to... well, that one hadn't changed. Now he was on edge, constantly having to keep half of his attention on the girl strung out below him, and it was all her fault.

If only she wouldn't struggle, like a _normal_ princess. Of course his plans had to hinge upon someone so aggravating. Anything less would be too easy.

Ah well. He liked challenges.

"You'll enjoy my castle," he continued as if uninterrupted, uncaring of her incomprehension. "Lots of perches to fly to and look out from. Assuming you won't accept my generous offer, of course." 

He glanced down at her. "Given how you've been acting, I'm pretty sure you won't. But a gentleman, such as myself, must always allow a lady the opportunity to prove her integrity."

The transformed magician looked back towards the castle that was just visible on the horizon. He was glad that he wasn't in his human form - the girl looked thoroughly ravished with her disheveled hair, bloodied limbs, and torn gown. A distant sensation of shame crept up within him, and he chided himself.

"I hope Bridget doesn't assume anything" he muttered to himself. "Granted, it would be an easy out on the betrothal issue, but there's no challenge, no skill to it." 

Besides, having her willing would make married life more pleasant.

\------------------

Odette felt half dead by the time the beast set her down on a grassy knoll beside a calm lake, the dying sunlight transforming the still water into a basin of gold. She blinked wearily at the peaceful scenery, wondering why she hadn't been stolen away to some hellish landscape full of sharp rocks and brimstone.

She lolled her head to face the hell bat, and gasped at the length of it's wings - she was sure that one wing stretched to the other side of the lake. The beast folded its wings, yawning, and stared down at her. She averted her eyes, and took in the damage of the flight.

Her blue brocaded gown was split almost in two, held together by the embroidered belt at her hips, and revealing much of her silver kirtle. She could feel that one of her garters had come undone - the woollen hose was bunched in a sodden mass around her ankle, saved only by her tightly laced shoes. Her chemise clung uncomfortably to her lower body, and she could feel her blood soaking up the sleeve.

Suddenly, a flash of golden light enveloped the creature in front of her. Odette shielded her eyes, gritting her teeth as she mentally steeled herself for whatever evil came next.

"Come now, Odette, I won't bite." The young woman peeked over her arm to behold a man with a bushy red beard and unkempt hair standing where the beast had been. "Well, not again, at least."

He was wearing a burgundy kirtle and sleeves over a pair of black breeches. His brown boots, gloves, and over-kirtle were tinged with blood. 

She couldn't hold back her glare, and fought to stand on weak and pained legs. "Who are you," she hissed as she propped herself against a tree, staring at the unknown man full of defiant anger.

"Did dear old Willy never tell you about me," he returned, folding his hands behind him as he slowly circled her and the tree. "Did he forget?" He chuckled at her silence and came to face her again. "I'm _hurt_. Truly I am."

"Don't play games with me, monster," she spat, clenching her hand in her skirts nervously. "I demand to know who you are."

He tsked. "You don't have much patience, do you? It _is_ a virtue."

Odette glowered, wishing her eyes could shoot daggers. "I will ask one more time. Who. Are. You."

He regarded her, absently stroking his bare chin. "Given reports, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you're so combative. You did, after all, once pelt your betrothed with rotten cabbages."

Her eyes widened - how did he know about that...

"Still, fair is fair," he continued, muttering slightly. He caught her eyes and smiled. "Perhaps you are at least aware of me - my name is Rothbart."

Odette felt her heart skip a beat. " _You're_ Rothbart? The sorcerer?"

Rothbart bowed theatrically, an amused and predatory look on his face. "The one and only!"

The warlock straightened and stepped closer, clasping his hands together with a manic smile. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I decided I had to bring you here in such a state, what with killing your father and all. It's quite a tale! I-"

Her palm connected with his face in a loud slap. He looked startled and raised his hand to lightly stroke the spot. Then his eyes narrowed as he looked at her crossly.

"Take me back to my kingdom," she commanded before he had time to speak. "If you return me this evening, I swear I will not hunt you down for the murder of my father."

Rothbart crossed his arms and pursed his lips, humming. "Could do that, yes. But... That doesn't guarantee you won't send someone _else_ to hunt me down, so... No."

Pointing a finger threateningly in his face, she ground out "Take me to my home, or else I swear I will make your life more difficult than you can imagine."

His purple eyes flicked over her. Smiling, he fanned his hands out to his sides. "Oh, but you see, Odette" he said patronisingly as he clenched his hands into fists, "you have no power here."

She jumped in surprise when two withered hands caught her elbows, and she turned to see an old woman, with grey hair as wild as Rothbart's, wearing a simple green kirtle and black overcoat.

Odette struggled against the new foe, but her injured legs gave out suddenly as the woman pulled her arms back awkwardly.

Rothbart knelt on one knee in front of her. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, Odette," he said. "You see, I have an offer to make you - I will grant you your freedom, if you make me your king."

The blonde woman looked up at him, askance. "What?"

"Marry me, and I'll set you free."

She spat a glob of spit at him. Calmly, Rothbart withdrew a handkerchief from a belt pouch, and wiped his face.

"Have it your way," he said simply.

His hands began glowing again, this time in gold. He reached out to cup her face on both sides, easily ensnaring her despite her attempts at evasion.

The magic burned through her skin. She opened her mouth to screech in pain, and it flowed down her throat like fire. Every muscle seemed to cry out, spasming, and then the pain spread to her bones. It was excruciating as her bones reformed themselves to the whim of the spell.

Then, suddenly, it was over. She breathed heavily, and felt her head hit the ground wearily as the sun set behind the mountain.

Opening one eye, she watched as Rothbart examined her. What had he done to her, she wondered. 

He made a series of gestures to the woman, saying something simultaneously. Odette couldn't hear anything except her own exhausted breath and pounding heart, but the woman nodded and picked her up. She was much higher than expected. Perhaps she'd been shrunk?

Then she was above the water, and what she saw in the reflection didn't make sense. The old woman was there, but she was holding a swan. Odette didn't see herself anywhere.

The water grew nearer as the woman bent down, and the reflection of the swan grew. With a frightened gasp, Odette at last realised what had happened.

She had been transformed into a swan. 

Rothbart was talking again. Odette attempted to ignore him, but his words wormed their way into her ears regardless.

"Now I know you're probably upset, Odette. But don't be sad - my spell doesn't even last the whole day." Insensible to her irate expression, he gestured to the moon shining overhead. "As soon as the moonlight touches your wings... Well, why don't you see for yourself?"

A gust of wind moved aside a stray cloud and suddenly she was surrounded in by a silver glow.

The water enveloped her in graceful arcs, creating a glowing golden cocoon around her. Then suddenly, it was gone. She cast a warning look at her captors, and curiously examined herself.

"See I'm not all that bad," Rothbart said mockingly. "You get to spend your nights as a young lady."

Odette waded through the pond, holding her ruined skirts above the water with an upturned nose. 

"Ah, ignoring me I see." Rothbart moved in front of her, arms crossed. "Allow me to explain things a tad further. This is how it will work; every night, the moonlight on your wings will return you to your human form."

She pushed past him with a withering expression on her face.

He followed her, thumbs hooked in his black belt. "You have to be on the lake of course, minor detail." Odette's steps faltered.

Rothbart drew in front of her once more, his stance cocky. "Now, I do want you to know that none of this gives me any pleasure," he continued contritely before a rueful smile appeared on his face. "Well, maybe a bit. You see, what I really want is your father's kingdom."

And what she really wanted was to be done with this madman. Odette shoved past him, tightly replying "Take it - you have enough power."

The glade around them sparked with golden light, and suddenly she was standing in Whitepool's great hall and staring at her father's throne.

Odette jumped - had he transported them? She took another step, and was dismayed to find only the wet earth of the lake beneath her shoe. No - he simply drawn up an image of her home. She hugged herself, and bitterly turned to face him once more.

Rothbart was waiting with a toothy smile. "You see, I've already tried taking it. Obviously didn't work," he spat, curling his fingers in distaste. "Besides, there are too many who'd resist, such as the _noble_ Lord Lawrence. Your father made him designated regent, yes?"

"How do you know such things," she whispered. He shrugged scornfully.

"It's amazing what money and power can buy," he said, beckoning her closer. 

When she didn't move, he rolled his eyes and shot her with a bolt of magic, transforming her torn and bloodied gowns into a resplendent dress of gold and red. He looked her over with hooded eyes, and in an instant wore a matching costume.

Rothbart stalked to her and towered at half an arm's length. His gaze was intense as he said "You see, Odette, if I marry the only heir to the throne we can rule the kingdom together. _King_ , and queen." 

With that he caught her hand and kissed the air over it, yet closely enough for the heat of his breath to be felt over her fingers. Purple eyes stared deeply into blue, and Odette felt pinned. 

Roughly, she extracted her hand and stepped back. "Never," she declared, and his illusion failed as she ran into the woods.

"Where are you going," Rothbart called after her with a laugh. "As soon as the moonlight leaves the lake, you'll be a swan again, no matter where you are!"

She whirled back, mouth agape in horror.

She rushed at him, wrathful tears in her eyes. "Why," she shouted as she pounded her fists against his chest. "Why are you doing this?"

He yelled at her to calm down, and finally caught her wrists to stop her repetitive strikes. "Look, Odette," he grated out through clenched teeth. "I have my limits. You are _testing_ them."

"Go ahead then, kill me," she challenged, voice breaking. "I'll never agree to this!"

Rothbart looked up towards the sky, and drew in a deep breath. Releasing it, he said evenly "Well then, I suppose it's a good thing that you'll have ample time to think my offer over," and threw her onto the muddied shore.

The hag, watching from the edge of the glade, cried out and gesticulated wildly at him.

The tall man rounded on her, and shouted "Of course I won't!" He pressed his fingers into his brow and looked irritably into the distance. 

After a deep breath, he waved his hands at the elderly woman, saying "I'm sure the princess is hungry and would like a change of clothes, Bridget. Why don't you see to her."

Rothbart turned back to Odette, eyebrows furrowed angrily. "If I hear that you caused my cousin any trouble, there will be hell to pay."

\-----------------

The wind whistled outside as Rothbart knocked back another goblet of warm ale, barely tasting the brew. Glowering, he threw the wooden vessel at the wall, where it connected with a resounding clack before clattering to the floor.

He could hear Odette in the antechamber, attempting to plead with Bridget for leniency. He scoffed, wondering how she expected a deaf woman to be able to sympathise. Perhaps she wasn't as bright as his contacts had led him to believe.

With a hiss of pain, he withdrew his bleeding foot from it's leathery prison. Bridget would be displeased at having to deal with so many blood soaked hose, he mused as he stripped off the browned garment. Miniature claw and bite marks marred his feet, and he could feel more on his shins as he shimmied out of his breeches.

One thing he'd learnt in his experiments was that damage sustained while transformed came back sevenfold upon returning to one's natural state. A slight drawback, especially as no amount of armour would protect him.

Odette had gotten several good blows in on him while wearing his guise of the Great Animal. He was very glad that her last blow had landed where it did - any lower and probably wouldn't have been able to stand when transformed back.

Removing his belt and kirtle, he prodded experimentally at the purpling flesh next to his navel. Yep, still hurt.

Sighing, he called upon healing spells and pressed cool fingers into his wounds.

"At least I know she'll be miserable during the day," he murmured spitefully, groaning when the tension in his back unravelled as the soothing magic passed through his body. "Serves her right. This didn't have to be so difficult."

His tunic was tossed carelessly to the floor as he wearily crawled beneath his bedsheets. He summoned a floating ball of greenish light, and pulled a book randomly from the shelf next to his bed. Metamorphoses again it seemed. He opened it randomly to find the familiar tale of Europa.

"Of course, I could try and convince her that life with me could be pleasant," he idly theorised to the thin air. "Though that shouldn't be too hard if she's trapped all day as a swan."

A stray breeze threw a cupboard across the room open with a bang. Rothbart shot it closed again with a careless flick of his fingers as he focused on the book. The hushed mutters of an irate woman travelled down the hallway outside. Clearly Odette hadn't found the sympathy she wanted.

The shadows of the room flickered. A cloud passing over the moon, he decided without looking away from the page. The script was difficult in this tome and required a good deal of concentration to decipher. According to Bridget, the scribe in question had been an exacting woman in every other respect.

A chill ran up his spine as the room grew colder. With an exasperated grunt, he cursed the brewing storm outside. He placed Ovid back on the shelf and extinguished his summoned light. Surrounded by the warmth of his duvet, he fell into a deep sleep.

\-----------------

Odette thrashed at the bladderwort, tearing up the plant and mashing in in her beak. If she was going to be trapped as a swan, she was going to arrange the plants on her lake as she saw fit.

A couple of swallows landed in a nearby fountain, washing themselves in the rain water that had gathered the night before. Odette was startled to realise she understood their twittering.

"And then _she_ says 'Oh but surely I can build a better nest with _him_ , just take a gander at his tail feathers,' to which I said 'my tail feathers are just as blue' but she just up an' flew off with no reply."

"No, she didn't?! Ah, and there you are with no girl this year. Blimey, but you'd best hope for a better season next summer - getting on there, ain't you?"

Odette waded closer, and the two birds turned to look at her with exclamations of surprise. "Hello there," she said tentatively, "but I do believe that I can understand you."

"Hey now, back off there, swany," the second sparrow ordered, puffing up his feathers. "This here's our pond - you's got your own."

"Yeah, go on, git," the other added, hopping about on the rim of the basin. "We're not letting you near our pond!"

Odette paused, and then sat down on the edge of the lake. "I don't want your... pond," she replied diplomatically. "I just want to talk to you."

"Oh that's rich," the first sparrow said, turning to the second. "D'you hear that? A swan, wanting to talk to us skybirds?"

"Never heard of anything so silly in my life." The second blinked at her. "Go on then, away with you!"

"Yeah, away with you!"

Odette huffed and reentered the water. Glancing back jealously at the conversing songbirds, she returned to tearing at the bladderwort.

The visible leaves were taken care of, the bright yellow flowers reduced to petals on the slow current, and Odette dove beneath the water to tear at the roots. She kicked at the sludge at the bottom of the lake, and was rewarded with the stubborn plant giving way. Resurfacing, she watched it float away.

The swallows must have flown away while she was under the water surface, for there was only silence from the fountain.

Then, suddenly, an irked voice. "Et _ça_ , oh, ça le _fait_. Si vous pensez que vous pouvez en faire comme ça, vous n'êtes pas au bord de vos surprises, aha!" Odette turned her head to see a frog where the swallows had been. "Vous ne pouvez rien me faire - vous n'avez aucun pouvoir ici! Vous..."

The frog noticed her suddenly, and screamed. "Bah, mais qui êtes-vous? Où... où suis-je?"

Odette cocked her head to the side and replied "Je m'appelle Odette, la princesse de Whitepool, et vous êtes dans la région du royaume de Chamberg. Malheureusement, je ne peux pas être plus précise que ça."

A French speaking frog was an oddity in itself, and she pondered over it silently. The French speaking kingdoms were hundreds of miles away from Chamberg. 

"Chamberg..." The frog turned to her and wetly slapped a foot on the fountain's rim. "Vous parlez ma langue... mais ils parlent l'allemand là-bas," it muttered to itself, split pupils staring up at her.

It coughed wetly, and hopped towards her. " _Alors_ , allow me to introduce myself, Princess," it said in a thick accent. "My name is Jean-Robert, prince of Cenebaum. I take it that you are under a spell too, _non_?"


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, with Derek...
> 
> Said I was working on this, but I don't have time to give it the focus I want as I work on a master's thesis. Thus, hiatus.
> 
> A/N: I do not own Swan Princess, and am making no financial gain from this work.

Derek looked over the carnage that was King William's private carriage and personal guard, stunned. On the overlook beside him stood Lord Rogers, praying under his breath, and he could hear Bromley retching in the distance.

Dismembered remains of horses and men laid strewn across the narrow forest road, the broken carriage itself scored by giant, raking cuts. The torn, red carriage curtains fluttering in the mild breeze - the door was itself lodged into a young tree some ten feet away. The banner of Whitepool lay in the middle of the path, trodden by the horses in their final panic and soaking up the blood of fine men. 

A grim testimony of what had passed. 

They had set out directly after Derek gave orders to see the sole survivor of the attack, a young footman, to the infirmary. Rogers, possessing amazing foresight, had sent word to have horses prepared as Derek attempted to interrogate the boy only to hear the same muttered words repeated. 

Words that were enough for them all to have spurred their horses bloody in their haste to reach the scene of the attack.

"Well, I don't know about you," Rodgers said lowly, "but this seems to me to be too large for any of God's creatures to have done it."

"It can't be Fafnir," Derek replied in a quiet voice. "This is too far south for him, unless he's got his eyes on a treasure."

Rogers looked at him out of the corner of his eye. " _He_ also would have set the forest ablaze, despite the rain. I do believe we can rule him out. Besides, the squire did say that it was some sort of..." Low groaning came from the bodies strewn along the path, and the three Chamberg nobles started.

"Good Lord, could someone still be alive down there," Bromley said, but Derek was already bounding down the hill and over the piled corpses to where the sound had come from.

The man was familiar in his ermine lined red cloak and the gold threading on his kirtle twinkled in the sun, standing out against the blood like flecks of fire. A humble gold circle lay in a puddle just beyond the head of grey hair - it was King William.

Derek cried out his name as he turned the visiting royal over, and gagged. Rogers and Bromley shouted in dismay and surprise when they approached and, too, saw the dragging intestines sprinkled with mud and the bluish face of the king.

"King William, sir," Derek said when the man feebly opened his eyes. "What happened here?"

The king groaned, muttered, and coughed weakly. Some blood spattered over his chin.

Derek wheeled towards his men, demanding something to staunch the wound with. Rogers spoke from behind a hand held tightly over his mouth - the wound was too grievous to do anything for. Bromley stood frozen, looking sick, and mechanically handed over his cloak when Derek's commanding gaze turned to him.

The prince pushed the guts in as gently as he could and quickly pressed the woollen cloth down on the gaping hole. William gasped in pain, and his eyes shot open.

"We were attacked," he rasped. "Attacked, by a great animal!" He looked around blearily at the ruin of his men, and his eyes widened. Quickly, he turned to look anxiously at the carriage, and cried out brokenly at the destruction there.

"What kind of great animal," Derek questioned and, as the king despaired over the carriage, he felt the cold fingers of fear creep up his spine. "Where's Odette?"

William tried to sit up and shouted in pain, grasping towards the rent transport. "Odette is..." He cried again, and fell back coughing up a steady rivulet of blood. "Odette is gone..."

Blindly he twisted his hand on Derek's sleeve, pulling the prince down to whisper in his ear. "Find her, I beg of you." His voice was weak, and when he looked, Derek saw a face lined with pain and fear - nothing like the smiling man who had watched him grow up. "Find... her!"

"I swear to you, King William," Derek heatedly vowed. "I will find Odette and avenge this slaughter."

The king's hand fell limply from Derek's shoulder as he fell back into the mud, eyes unseeing.

The three Chamberg nobles waited silently for a moment. Then, Rogers broke the silence with "Thus passes William, son of Robert, king of Whitepool." He turned to look at Derek with a lopsided grin and unreadable eyes. "I would say long live the Queen, but it seems she has disappeared."

"Is this really the time for sarcasm?" Derek felt hot tears in his eyes and an unidentifiable whirlpool of emotions in his heart.

"My lord, you'll find I often employ it to keep from losing control of myself. We all have our methods - Bromley's here appears to be going catatonic."

Indeed Derek's best friend was so pale and still that he could have been mistaken for a corpse, had he laid down. The similarity only increased when Derek handed the bloodstained cloak over. Bromley returned to its place as mechanically as it had left it.

"I suppose we should look for tracks," Bromley said in a voice that seemed to come from far away. "What ever kind of creature it was should have left tracks."

The wind shifted as Derek turned to look over the disaster and flung leaves across the path leading towards the harbour, where the ship of Whitepool surely still awaited its monarch. Derek watched them dance on the breeze, remembering the dance he and Odette had shared just that afternoon, and nodded gruffly. "Bromley, you check the sides of the road, I'll look on ahead."

"I'll just stay here, then," Rogers called out, arms crossed as the two young men departed. "Lord knows you'd _both_ be faster trackers than me."

Derek followed the path, watching as the footprints of the horses and soldiers painted a story of panic after a sudden stop. There were hints of woodland creatures sneaking by to examine the carnage, evidence of crows having landed near several of the more ragged corpses. Then, suddenly, the prints disappeared altogether - only a single leaf-choked puddle marred the surface of the path.

Nothing had passed this direction, yet the prints behind him indicated this to be the direction the thing had come from. So how had they been attacked?

"No, Bromley, those are _our_ footprints," Rogers was saying with exasperation when Derek returned to the carriage.

Bromley looked distracted, said "Oh," and then crossed the path to poke aimlessly at the underbrush there.

Derek looked at him worriedly; Brom wasn't usually this clumsy, or quiet. Tearing his eyes away, he said "Lord Rogers, I think we need to return to the castle and send a group to clear this away." He looked down at William's body, unnervingly still. "Send missives to Lord Lawrence and ask for his aid in searching for..."

His voice caught in his throat and he rushed to the carriage as a glint of gold caught his eye. Rogers shouted after him, but the words flowed past his ears like water. His heart lurched when he at last brushed off his find and held it reverently.

It was the necklace he had given Odette as a child, the clasp broken and the chain sullied from the pit it had been lying in.

Bromley gasped from behind him. "Derek," he stuttered, "look..."

Derek turned to his friend's frightened face staring him, no... at the pit beneath him, and stepped back.

It was a single giant claw print.

The three were quiet as they returned to the castle, though Rogers occasionally broke the silence to rule out an increasing number of magical creatures. None of them mentioned Odette, nor the necklace that was like a firebrand in Derek's clenched hand.

Derek, equally worried over Bromley's unusual behaviour as the attack, summoned a priest to talk to his friend and attempt to alleviate his pain. As the robed man led the yet shell-shocked noble away, a nurse ran over to him and Rogers with a worried expression.

"Sire," she began, dabbing at the sweat beading in the corners of her habit, "the soldier you sent us, he's died."

"Good Lord have mercy on his soul," Rogers said, looking haggard. "And on _us_ \- he was our best bet for finding out what happened."

Derek waved him aside and fixed his eyes searchingly on the nun. "Did he say anything more before he died," he implored. Maybe if the boy had managed to get a hold of his senses...

"No, my lord," she replied. "He just repeated the same sentence he'd been saying when we took him from you."

Frowning, Derek thanked and dismissed her. Dimly, he heard Rogers say that he would be writing letters to Lord Lawrence and informing the queen regent. Derek nodded absently and puzzled over the words as he returned to the study.

It's not what it seems, the boy had muttered endlessly. It's not what it seems.


End file.
